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Raven Morgan Leigh

   I've been holding out so long
   I've been sleeping all alone
   Lord I miss you
   I've been hanging on the phone
   I've been sleeping all alone
   I want to kiss you
      ~ Rolling Stones , "Miss You"

   The phone rang. And rang again. Another ring and Starsky fumbled for the phone on his bedside table, nearly knocked off . Got the receiver and lifted it to his ear. "Hutch? "

   Dead silence.

   "H’llo...whooozitt..?"

   " David?" Older woman’s voice, heavy Brooklyn accent. Oh, God.

   "Hi, Ma?" Starsky answered muzzily. His mother never seemed to understand that there was a three-hour time difference between New York and California—and she was an early riser. Starsky glanced at the clock, and the red flashing light made him suppress a groan. Four freaking thirty. Jeez.

   "David?"

   "Yeah Ma, how’re ya doin’?"

   Another long silence. That woke him faster than station-house coffee could have. "Ma?"

   "Davey...it’s Nicholai."

   Oh God, she called him Nicholai—what’s he done, now? was the first thought that ran through Starsky’s now wide-awake brain.

   "Ma?" Starsky sat up in bed and reached for his robe. He’ still, even on the phone didn’t feel comfortable speaking to his mother when he was in the buff. Even if she couldn’t see him. He shrugged into it and tied the belt, tightly.

   "Nicholai’s in trouble." Hs mother sighed, all the pain of a thousand generations of Jewish Suffering Mothers was in her voice. "He’s ..he’s gotten into drugs."

   "Ma, what happened?" Starsky asked as he threw back the covers to get out of bed. He felt a little guilty because he wanted to get to the bottom of things as quickly as possible—but he didn’t want to cut his mother off—and he did want to help...even if it killed him. "Well," His mother began, " It’s just terrible—"

   Oh, Jesus, here we go. Thank God for long phone cords, Starsky thought . Picking up the phone, Starsky padded into the kitchen while his mother babbled. The tile floor was cold on bare feet, and he wished he’d gotten his slippers. His mother was still talking, and much of what she was saying didn’t make sense. He got a glass from one of the cabinets and filled it with cold water from the sink. He took a sip of it and leaned against the counter trying to make sense of what his mother was saying.

   Setting the glass in the sink, Starsky finally broke into to his mother’s never slowing stream of distress. "Ma..." as gently as possible, "Ma, what exactly happened?"

   " My son –your brother, David! --was taken to Jail. To the Tombs. My son! With the bums and the drug addicts and the bamboozlers and the –"

   "Ma? Is he okay?" Starsky , hating himself, cutting her off. Again. At this point he wanted to bang his head into the cabinet. He glanced out the window.

   Fuck. It’s still dark . God, I’m tired. He began ambling back into the bedroom, trying not to get the phone cord hung on anything. "What’d they bust him for, Ma?"

   Long, long pause. " He was arrested for assault—he went after somebody at some dive in the Village. They let him out after twenty-four hours. I was so embarrassed...some of the officers there knew your father, God rest his soul. I was so ashamed!"

   Starsky stopped in the doorway, shocked. " Ma ..."

   "Your brother came home with me, took a shower, went out—and the next thing I know, he’s calling me from Bellevue —he had some kind of seizure he had from doing some drug...pills, I think. He bit his tongue during the seizure---on the train---and people came to help him, he just cursed at them until he couldn’t help himself any longer. He got a lot of stitches in his tongue. He sounds worse than Eliza from ‘My Fair Lady".

   "Where is he now, ma? Is he okay?" Please, ma—just tell me if he’s okay. I need to know this, Ma, please... Starsky wearily made it to the bed and sat.

   His mother continued, "He sings in a band.. and as old as he is.. he should get a real job, but it’s one of those Punk Rocker bands—he plays in the East Village.."

   Does she even care about him? Or is she just ticked that Nick’s dishonoring Dad’s memory---or embarrassing her? The hell with this...Starsky made his decision, then and there. "Ma, I’m coming up. Can you put me up for a couple of weeks?"

   "David, you don’t have to do that--that’s not why I called—"

   Isn’t it? But Starsky heard the relief in her voice , and it said, it’s okay, he’s coming, he’ll fix it... despite his mother’s weak objections.

   "I’ve got two weeks vacation coming." Starsky said, overriding another barrage of half-hearted protests. " Now seems like a good time to take it." Starsky said, as if he were planning a trip to the Bahamas.

   Yet another long pause. And then a sigh. "It’ll be good to see you, Davey." His mother’s voice suddenly seemed so warm—so loving.

   Starsky wished with all his heart that it was for real. But he was trapped by his family’s tendency to dole out love in tiny , carefully hoarded parcels. The price for receiving those tiny bits of affection was the willingness to take on all sorts of impositions and "troubles"—for the family. Starsky referred to it as the "do for me " syndrome .

   He’d known, since his father died in the hail of bullets from a mobster’s betrayal that this time was coming. That he would have to take up the unwritten charge of the eldest male; he would have to take responsibility for the family. To "do for the Family". Somewhere , deep down he accepted his new duties—and nearly reveled in them. But he chastised himself because his reasons were so selfish. That he simply wanted –needed love from his mother and his brother—and maybe –coming to the rescue—was the only way to get that love.

   But she threw me away—sent me way out here—away from them—He quelled that thought with the ruthlessness of long years of pushing his feelings down, and away where they couldn’t hurt anyone. He had enough to deal with right now.

   Not to mention his other problem. He needed to get away from Hutch. So he could think. So he could breathe.

   "Ma, he said consolingly, " I’ll be there as soon as I can book a flight, okay?"

   " Are you sure, Davey?" She asked. "This won’t get you into trouble at work?" and after another beat, " Are you bringing that nice partner of yours?" Something else crept into her voice, something... knowing and a little fearful. Starsky didn’t want to know what the source of that fear was.

   "Ma, I’m sure. I’ll be there in a couple of days. Just me. Okay?" Starsky faked a yawn in to the phone. " Uh, Ma...I really need to go back to sleep—it’s really early here, and I gotta go to work tomorrow, huh?"

   "Early? I didn’t realize--I’m sorry to keep you up, go back to sleep."

   More guilt. Two could play that game. Starsky let his voice show every bit of his weariness. " Okay, ma...I’ll...see ya... later...bye, ma..."

   "Good night, David."

   He waited, a moment and heard his mother hang up. As he hung up the receiver, he breathed a sigh of relief.

   He stripped off his robe, got under the covers and lay there wondering what the next two weeks would bring. Wondered about Hutch. He lay there for a long time. Alone.

   A weight on the bed made him glance up, but it was only his lover.

   "Hey, babe." Hutch said, and Starsky rolled over a little to make room for him.

   Starsky burrowed his face into Hutch’s warm, smooth chest, and let his lips move against the soft skin. His tongue lazily traced the aureole around an erect nipple.

   Hutch moaned, and his arms stroked Starsky’s sides and his back, soothingly, lovingly. " I love you," Hutch whispered into Starsky’s hair. He nuzzled Starsky’s neck and Starsky found himself all choked up, unable to speak.

   He answered by grinding himself into Hutch, feeling his sex slide against Hutch’s with the most exquisite friction. He groaned aloud, as his pulse began to race. He was losing himself. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t analyze—he could only experience and respond. He was panting as Hutch’s hands slid lower on his back, lower , until they reached that tiny hot mouth that seemed the very center of him.

   "Oh, God.." Starsky couldn’t stop his low moan. " Oh, God, please, now, now..."

   Hutch kissed him thoroughly, and Starsky sucked at Hutch’s hot, silky tongue, letting his own tongue slide over lips, over teeth, re-learning Hutch’s flavor. He gasped into Hutch’s mouth , feeling Hutch’s finger, slick with lube , slid into him so slowly, that he thought he’d simply die from wanting. " Hutch, please...babe, ah, do it..."

   " Patience." Hutch mock-growled, as he slowly drove another long finger to Starsky’s core, making him arch and groan. Hutch twisted his fingers, and let the knuckles rub against that tiny spot of pleasure deep within Starsky, and he felt his whole body burn with please , with need, and he was crying out into Hutch’s mouth, begging for it shamelessly.

   Hutch withdrew his fingers, and gently turned Starsky over onto his stomach. He kissed Starsky’s back, little trailing kisses that ended up behind an ear. Starsky felt himself spread wide and positioned. This time, Hutch’s fingers tortured him, thrusting deep, and there was Hutch’s other hand softly stroking his sex ---anything he could reach. Starsky moaned, thrusting himself harder into Hutch’s hands, babbling nonsense in a half-whisper. And then , finally, finally!-- Hutch’s hardness was rubbing gently against that slick , puckered flesh, then popping past the tightly muscled ring, driving all the way to the center of him, making him feel full and loved. He couldn’t wait , and slammed his hips into Hutch’s with a raw scream, and then again and again and again, until he felt his body begin to shake itself apart in Hutch’s tight embrace.

   Dimly, he heard himself screaming again and heard Hutch’s answering cry, and knew his partner had reached the same place. They were together in this, as always, as they were together in everything. Something broke loose, and he felt as it he was floating.

   He was sobbing.

   He felt hot and sticky. And he was alone.

   Starsky pulled back the sheets—and looked down, not wanting to believe what his senses were telling him, but there was the evidence, all over his sheets, his stomach. Damn. Not again.

   No. No. I’m not even gonna deal with this today, he thought angrily as he kicked the covers aside. He struggled up , and ripped the sheets off the bed. He pitched them into the hamper on his way to the bathroom.

   He turned on the shower and tested the water. Damn. What the fuck does this mean? What was that all about?

   Starsky got into the shower and leaned heavily against the tiled wall.

   You know damned well what that was about, he thought as he let the warm water cascade over him, washing away the remnants of his dream. But it couldn’t wash away what was in his heart.

********

   Starsky pulled up in front of Venice Place, and Hutch was waiting. He’d been waiting for at least fifteen minutes and once again , they were going to be late. "What happened this time, huh?" Hutch asked snappishly as he settled into the Torino’s passenger seat. He slammed the door shut, and Starsky gave him a warning glance. "Another hot date?"

   Starsky was not in the mood for Hutch’s parental tone. "Had a bad night." Shortly. Why the hell didn’t I just tell him it that’s it’s none of his Goddamned business? Christ---another great morning. He said nothing more, driving in silence as Hutch grabbed the receiver and logged them in with Metro.

********

   At the station, Hutch sat at his desk, noisily shuffling papers, looking up to stare at his silent partner with increasing frequency. He finally got up and left for a little while, returning with a brown paper bag, which he unceremoniously dumped into Starsky’s lap.

   Starsky jumped a little in his chair. "Huh?" Then his brain registered the paper bag full of his favorite donuts. " Uh, thanks, Hutch."

   "You look hungry." Hutch went round to his own chair and sat, seemingly at ease. "What’s going on with you, huh?" Hutch asked.

   Starsky decided to level with his partner. " I gotta go home."

   "Home?" Hutch’s expression changed to one of concern. " You said you had a bad night. You sick?"

   "No, home, to New York." Starsky watched some of his papers blowing around on his desk from the breeze created by the old fan. He toyed with one of the fluttering papers.

   "What..is it ---Nick?" Hutch raised a quixotic eyebrow.

   Starsky tried to maintain a veneer of nonchalance. It wasn’t working. Hutch was tensing up. Hell, he was tensing up. All Hutch had to do was fix him with those sea-blue eyes... God, he felt as if he were pinned to his chair.

   "What’s he done, now?" Hutch asked. " Is he in jail?" He leaned forward a little, and it was all Starsky could do not to . "He’s in jail, again, isn’t he." Matter-of-factly.

   "Yep." Starsky wanted to snarl with frustration. He felt trapped, sucked into a maelstrom of emotion, lost somewhere between lust and his anger at Hutch for his smugness.

   " When?" Hutch asked, and Starsky knew that he was actually asking, "when are you going home?", not " when did Nick get busted". That was the way they communicated. It was uncanny, but there it was.

   "Tomorrow." Starsky mumbled. " Already cleared it with Dobey."

   Hutch made a non-committal sound, and turned back to his paperwork.

   "Starsk?"

   "Starsky?"

   Starsky blushed, realizing that he’d been staring off into space for at least the last ten minutes.

   " Are you okay, Starsk?" Hutch radiated concern. Christ, he was out of his seat, coming ‘round the desk—he stopped and laid a hand on Starsky’s shoulder. "You wanna talk about it?" He whispered in Starsky’s ear.

   Damn you, don’t--! Don’t care so much, please...don’t—Starsky’s mind raced as he felt the light pressure of Hutch’s hand on his shoulder, his breath in his ear. It didn’t help that Hutch knew just how painful it was for Starsky to return to his childhood home.. where his father had been shot—where he’d lost everything. And suddenly Hutch was close—too close, touching.. his thigh, his knee...and Starsky couldn’t breathe. He got up, too fast, knocking over his chair.

   " Hey, hey...!" Hutch backed off, hands held up.

   " I need some air."

   " Did I do something—"

   "No."

   "Starsky—what—"

   Starsky spun on his heel and slammed out of the office , through the hall and out to the parking garage.

   He stood panting, staring at the black Transam Firebird that had taken the place of his beloved Torino, so many years ago. At the place that had started all of this. All of these feelings. Where he’d nearly died. Starsky controlled his breathing with an effort. It was raw arousal and petrifying fear that he battled—and he was determined to ignore it—figuring it for some leftover hang-up or misinterpreted nuance of feeling from the days after he’d nearly died from Gunther’s bullets—hey—like father, like son...

   It had been a long, long recovery—nearly two years, and Hutch had been with him through it from the first days of agony—through the painful physical therapy, through the hard fight to get back on the force...only Hutch. Starsky’s mother had never come to see him; Nick had not even called. His mother had called once. After that, Starsky had called her, once a month.

   Starsky didn’t think that he was gay.. and he hoped to Christ, he wasn’t . Things were tough enough, being one of the department’s only Jews—and a native New Yorker, to boot... and he’d gotten more than enough crap because of it. Death threats, a couple of beatings—he didn’t even want to think about what it would mean if it were ever found out that he was—what was he thinking. He wasn’t gay, he wasn’t.

   A part of his mind snarled at him, hey, who do your think you’re kidding? And Hutch is not the first man you’ve gotten a woody for.

   And then there was Carmine, tough Italian kid, back in Brooklyn—God, I loved him so much...until he’d been stomped to death in a gang fight. No one in the gang of Brooklyn toughs had ever known that he and Carmine were lovers. And in opposite gangs, to boot. Jesus. Starsky’s eyes misted a little, remembering the tall, swarthy companion of his early teens. How they had to hide to keep things secret.

   His gang would’a killed him, if they’d known. Mine , too.

   But he’d been around the block in ‘Nam, and hey, during the 70’s it had been pretty common, even desirable to explore one’s sexual boundaries. It proved you had an open mind. That you weren’t stereotypical. That you weren’t "like other Jews". And then, you were allowed, even encouraged -- to stretch those boundaries. To play. To experience.

   It was now 1981 ... and things were wilder than ever.

   But this... this feeling was more than play—it was more than friendship or gratitude. It was –something all consuming—nearly sacred in its purity. Starsky was terribly afraid that it was love. Love for Hutch. It threatened to rip him apart.

   "Hey, buddy?" Hutch’s voice broke into Starsky’s thoughts, and Starsky flushed, ashamed to be caught woolgathering . Again.

   " Uh, yeah?"

   "So, are you going tell me what the hell’s going with Nick , that you have to pick up and go, just like that?"

   " Nope."

********

   The flight out wasn’t that bad, Hutch drove him to the airport. Made sure he was stocked with Dramamine for airsickness, stuff for his stomach, and horrible health concoctions, which Starsky promptly flushed down the toilet as soon as he’d boarded the plane.

   Leaving had been weird because Starsky had been almost positive that Hutch had something very, very important to tell him. But he kept starting sentences—like "Starsky.. I ..I thought about things last night.. and ..well, never mind."

   And , " Hey, buddy...call me when you get there...I ..uh.."

   And even worse, " Buddy.. when you get back here, I think we need to ..uh..I..uh... never mind."

   In frustration, Starsky had told Hutch, "I’ll call you –" given his big blonde partner a quick hug that left him throbbing, and boarded the plane.

   He slept almost the whole way to New York.

********

   There was of course, no one to meet him that next morning at JFK. He caught the bus headed into Manhattan. It was cooler weather than he’d grown accustomed to—for Christ’s sakes it was May—here it was 58 degrees. Jesus. Nasty out, rainy. He’d forgotten the sense of awe that being in the Big Apple could bring, and he stared up, unabashedly, like a tourist—nearly overwhelmed by the towering grey spires of concrete, glass and steel. It had been a long time.

   He got off the bus on 7^th Street. The smells of pizza and franks combined with the noxious odor of car exhaust made him dizzy. The very air seemed permeated by sounds of the children on the street corner, beating their plastic tubs with sticks in the primal rhythms of their African ancestors. The shabbily flashing lights of the Girl’s, Girls, Girls! Sign above his head blinked on, and off—adding to his sense of vertigo. Maybe he just needed to eat.

   He had a clam chowder and some scalding hot coffee at the old Chock Full O’ Nuts on 50^th. He finished his food, went out into the drizzle and hailed a cab. It seemed to take forever to get to the Lower East Side.

   Starsky’s mother had moved here soon after her husband’s untimely death, which left her, a woman with only the skills of an immigrant seamstress, nearly destitute. She’d rented a reasonably sized two-bedroom apartment there on East 17^th street. Starsky had been sending a good chunk of the rent once a month since his army days. Good thing it was a rent-controlled building, he reflected.

   The building, like a lot of it’s kind, had been a showplace during the 20’s and 30’s—with it’s marble floors and sculpted lions which guarded the courtyard. During World War II , it had begun a decline that had continued until the present day. It looked like a tenement. The elevator didn’t work and was full of garbage. The hallways smelled of piss. Starsky was glad he’d only packed a couple of bags for this trip as he trudged tiredly up to the 14^th floor.

   He found the apartment all right. The loud argument emanating from behind it’s battered door signaled that he’d come to the right place even if he’d not had the correct apartment number. He rang the door bell, heard nothing and figured it was broken. He knocked on the door—and then heard a crash—glass?

   Jesus. Starsky dropped one of his bags, and pounded on the metal door with his fist. Hard. The voices, a young man’s and an older woman’s --stopped abruptly.

   Starsky stood listening as one lock after another clicked open. He counted six in all. The door swung open and there was his brother Nick, glaring at him in anger and surprise.

   "H’llo, Nick." Starsky plastered a big smile on his face, determined to make this a happy homecoming. Or a least give it his best shot. Then he took a good look at his younger brother and felt his face go wooden.

   This—this was his brother? Dressed head to toe in back leather, chains and handcuffs looped through the shoulder straps of his biker jacket, combat boots, and ---bald.

   "Nick?" Starsky asked, incredulously.

   " Davey, is that you?" Starsky’s mother’s voice rang out from somewhere behind Nick.

   Oh, my god.. is he actually wearing eyeliner? , was Starsky’s first thought. And then, ...Ma?

   " Uh, yeah, Ma...it’s me..." Starsky’s voice trailed off, as he stared in dismay at this ugly skinhead punk who had once been his baby brother.

   Starsky couldn’t take his eyes off Nick. Oh, god.. that’s not an earring.. that’s a safety pin...

   Nick’s recovered first, snarling with black lips, "What,-- are you here to give me MORE shit—I get enough shit from that bitch—"

   The stitches didn’t seem to stop your mouth, did it Nick? "Don’t talk about your mother that way—" Starsky began automatically, but Nick shoved violently past him and out into the dark hallway, muttering a heartfelt "Fuck you, eat shit and die, you fucking pig--" under his breath, and then he was gone.

   And then his mother was there, in the doorway, looking so fragile and tiny, silver haired.. how had she gotten so old? But her face creased in a big, pleased smile. " Davey, don’t just stand out there in the hall-- come in, come in.." she said, as if the preceding scene with Nick was perfectly normal—just another day in the life— of the Starskys.

   Her hands were hot against his cheeks. She barely came up to his shoulder. Odd, the last time he’d seen her face to face, they’d been eye to eye.

   " Oh, Davey, Davey—my little one’s come home, I’m so glad to see you—"

   Ma, " Starsky interrupted, as his mother steered him to a seat on the threadbare couch. He glanced around at the living room—noticing peeling wallpaper, battered furniture, it was a sad place. This was how his mother lived. He sat on the couch and stared up at his mother. " Ma—what the heck was that all about? You’re fightin’?"

   " Oh, just family troubles, Davey—he wanted money—"

   " Ma—" What? I’m not part of the family, anymore--Oh, Christ, Nick...

   " He says he needs money, and I tell him, I don’t have it—and he says I’m lying—never mind.

   "Ma—" What the hell are you doin’, Nick?

   Let me make you a sandwich. Are you very tired?"

   "Ma, I ate already—later, huh?"

   "Are you sure?" She said, almost sincerely. I need to go out to the market—I ‘m making a special dinner f or Nick—you know he just got out of the hospital—"

   Special dinner. For Nick. Not me.. whom you haven’t actually seen in years.

   Starsky tried to keep the hurt out of his voice. "Sure, Ma—I’m sure, I just wanna take a nap.. long flight, Ma—I’m kinda tired."

   "Alright, then. The couch folds out, David." She said, and then gathered up her flowered purse and grey coat and left him there alone in a cold, dead house which seemed alive only with the ghosts of shattered childhoods, broken dreams and a very, very distant hope.

********

   " Hello?"

   Warm sunshine and a cool breeze. That was Hutch’s voice to Starsky. He swallowed, and summoned up his best tough guy voice.

   " Hey. It’s me."

   " Hey, Starsk—how was your trip?" Hutch sounded glad to hear his voice. At least someone was.

   " Trip was okay. I slept most of the way." Starsky couldn’t keep from smiling at the undertone of welcome in Hutch’s voice.

   "So—how’s your mom? How’s Nick?" Hutch asked, and it felt like a blow to the stomach.

   It took a long time for him to do it but Starsky answered, hating the tremor in his voice, " It—It’s not great, Hutch."

   Starsky heard Hutch take a deep breath. Then softly, " You okay?"

   Starsky answered with pure New Yorker charm and bravado. " Oh, yeah, sure—it’ll work out. You know hoe these things are—I’m gonna crash now, okay. M’tired. Long trip."

   " Okay." A long pause then, and Starsky never knew why he didn’t hang up then. They had never needed good-byes.

   " Hey, Starsk?"

   "Yeah."

   " If you—if you need anything—" Hutch’s hesitation was rather touching. " If you need something.. call me?"

   But Starsky couldn’t show how his friends concern ha moved him, so he bulldozed over it. " Jesus, Hutch, what’re you gonna do—fly up here to keep me company? I’ll be fine."

   " Okay." Hutch accordingly acted the role of buddy. " Yeah. Then, see you in two weeks."

   " Yeah." Starsky hung up the phone, but he sat there on the couch for a long, long time, hearing the conversation over and over again in his head. Hearing the concern, the caring. And basking in it, much to his chagrin.

   He finally managed to haul his tired body up off the lumpy couch and haul that body to the bathroom for a shower. He dug out some towels, ran the water with its shitty water pressure until it was the right temperature. Then he stripped, hanging his clothing on the hooks on the back of the bathroom door, and got in.

   The house was a little chilly, and so the steam rose profusely, masking with its gossamer mist the stains in the old grout, the mold embedded in the ancient tile. Starsky found himself relaxing as he began to lather up ad soap his torso. His hands slid lower on his body, slick with soap, and images of Hutch, smiling at a joke, gazing so seriously at him in the hospital when he’d been poisoned, holding him as he cried for Terry—he almost lost what had been building then—but the later memories of Hutch, massaging his back and shoulders after Starsky’s nearly fatal shooting revived him. And the phone call—the obvious love in Hutch’s voice—for him—for him!

   Starsky stroked lower, and new images began to form in his mind, Hutch, stoking him, like this, Hutch’s wide, sensuous mouth, sucking strongly at his neck, behind his ear, and –oh, God, yes, there...Starsky's breath came in rough gasps as he thought of Hutch here, holding him in his mouth, using his tongue, stroking the spongy flesh behind the head and then the darkly protruding vein all along his shaft. He stroked again, harder, and again.. and suddenly, struggling to hold back a moan behind tightly clenched teeth, he was there—and fountaining all over his hand onto the shower wall.

   He cleaned up the shower by running cold water. Cursing himself , all the while. For being such a sap. And such a lousy fuck, how could he do this? How could he do this to Hutch?

   It wasn’t until he’d settled down on the rickety couch in the living room that he dared to ask himself, but what if Hutch feels the same way?

********

   Nick didn’t come home for dinner. Ma had made his favorite; chicken and dumplings, biscuits, and frozen french-fries. She sat dejectedly in her battered recliner in front of the TV for hours, keeping vigil. Starsky tried once or twice to comfort her, but she shrugged him off. Finally, around midnight, Starsky’s mother put aside her crossword puzzle and shuffled off to bed, giving her eldest child a soft kiss on the cheek on the way out.

   Starsky folded out the sofa bed and turned of the TV. He stripped down to his briefs and lay down, trying in vain to find a comfortable position on the old sofa bed. The metal frame kept digging into his back. He was so tired that he finally gave up and resigned himself to waking up in agony and went to sleep.

   He couldn’t have been asleep for more than an hour when a crash brought him instantly awake and reaching for a gun in a nightstand that wasn’t there.

   " Oh, uh. Sorry, sorry.." Nick’s slurred voice rang out in the darkness of the living room, too loud. Drunk? Starsky got out of bed and turned on the lamp next to the couch. Yep, it was Nick---drunk, or on something. The TV table was overturned, with ma’s TV guides, magazines and crossword puzzles all over the ratty carpet. Nick blinked owlishly at his brother, then staggered into the kitchen.

   Starsky threw on his robe and pulled on his sneakers. He picked up the fallen TV table and his mother’s things, set them all back up. Then, taking a deep breath, he followed Nick into the kitchen. Nick was rummaging through the scarred wooden cabinets, and not too successfully. A box of cereal nearly fell to the floor, but Starsky caught it, intending to make sure his mother could continue her sleep.

   "Oh, uh.. thanks." Nick muttered. "Was looking for that." He snatched the cereal box from Starsky’s hand, snagged a bowl out of the plastic dish drain and sat at the table.

   " Don’t you need milk for that?" Starsky asked, not amused.

   "Oh, yeah.." Nick started to rise from his chair, but Starsky put a hand on his shoulder to hold him down. " Don’t bother, I’ll get it," he said softly. He got the milk out of the fridge, and poured some of the cereal and milk into the bowl for Nick. He got a spoon from the silverware drawer and handed it to his brother. Then he sat down at the table, across from Nick and wondered what the hell was wrong with his kid brother.

   The ugly yellow light did nothing for Nick’s appearance. The smeared black eyeliner made him look even more haggard than his drugged and depleted state should have. Scars and cuts on the knuckles of his hands. Worn, beat-up, drugged out of his mind. His brother. Christ.

   Nick seemed to be having problems sitting upright in his chair. Starsky caught a whiff of strong booze. Nick’s eyes were barely open, and he was beginning to nod off.

   " Hey.." Starsky tried to get his Nick’s attention. " Hey."

   Nick’s eye fluttered to half-mast and he stared at Starsky with an inebriated smirk on his face. " Yeah, bro..?"

   Starsky decided not to do the interrogation thing, not tonight. He just didn’t know what to expect. So he only asked, "R’you okay?"

   " Yeah...went out to see the Circle Jerks..." Nick stared at his cheerios, and then the spoon, as if trying to decide what to do with them. He picked up the spoon, very, very slowly.

   Drugs, definitely. But what? "Circle Jerks, never heard of ‘em." What kind of name is that for a band? God, I must really be gettin’ old. Never mind that—keep him talking.

   Nick obliged with the characteristic single-mindedness of the stoned, "...good band...really good...and I did some Ludes...good shit..really good shit..."

   "Ludes?" Starsky’s heart went cold, but his detective’s brain instantly began to categorize and organize facts.

   Ludes. Barbiturate. Methaqualone. Known as Qualudes out on the street. A sedative-hypnotic, a downer. And it explains the convulsions. People die from overdoses on this stuff. Real addictive.

   Starsky’s mind whirled back to another time, so long ago—Hutch, himself in an alley, Hutch shaking in his arms, strung out---

   "He’s a junkie..."

   " I’ll take full responsibility.."

   And then in a room above Huggy’s bar—Hutch angry, raging---

   "You wanna help me—help me!"

   But Nick was still rambling. " ...Lemon Seven-Fourteens, dude.... really good shit... you’re not gonna bust me r’ya?" Then he chuckled drunkenly. Then, out of the blue, sudden anxiety; " You can’t bust your brother...are you my brother, you can’t bust your brother---Davey?"

   Starsky truly did not know what to say. Am I, anymore? Am I even part of this family anymore?

   He settled on the truth.. at least the truth for now. " I’m still your brother, Nick. And I’m not going to bust you." But the sentence evidently went unheard. Nick was collapsing, nodding off –and sliding down inexorably until his face came to rest in his uneaten bowl of cereal.

   Starsky didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He was tempted to just leave him there. But the milk in the bowl began to bubble, and Starsky realized that his brother was breathing the milk . In. Out. Shit. He got up and moved to Nick’s side. Just then, Nick’s weight finally overturned the bowl, sending milk and cheerios all over the table and the floor. Which was where Nick, bonelessly sliding out of his chair--- also landed.

   Shit. What a fucking wreck.

   Starsky just stood there, staring at his brother for a long, long time.

   He managed to get him up off the floor, and into a fireman’s carry, wrenching his bad shoulder in the process. But he got the idiot to his room, tossed him on the bed, and covered him up, spikes, boots and all--- with the comforter.

   He went back to the kitchen, cleaned up the mess, and went to bed. But it was a long time before he could go to sleep.

   At least, this time, his dreams were undisturbed.

********

   He woke badly, in enough pain that he thought he’d been shot again.

   His shoulder. He eased himself up and out of the sofa bed, groaning a little as he did so.

   Noises coming from the kitchen. He threw on the robe and sneakers, and ambled on in. His mother was washing dishes. Dressed to go out. To work, yeah.. it was Wednesday.

   She didn’t look up as he came in. "Nick’s gone out. He left around noon." She dried a plate with a dingy towel.

   " Noon? " What time is it?"

   " Two-thirty." Starsky couldn’t believe he’d slept so long. Of course, the last time he’d looked at his watch, it had been four-something-in-the-morning. He still felt beat. ‘"Is Nick okay. Did he say where he was last night?" He asked, conversationally.

   His mother seemed to not have heard the question. "Nick had some of last night’s dinner. He’s a good boy. Are you hungry, Davey?"

   Okay! Can we say denial, ladies and gentlemen? Starsky kept that thought locked down, and said instead, " Yeah, a little."

   She finally turned to face him. She looked nearly as haggard and worn out as Nick.

   Did you get any sleep last night, Ma, Starsky wondered, suddenly feeling badly for this fragile old lady, his mother.

   But she patted him on the shoulder and said kindly, "There’s some bologna and cheese in the fridge, and there’s bread. Or you can have leftovers. I have to go to work."

   "Sure, Ma." He said and he pulled her close and kissed her forehead. She smiled up at him, surprised. " You’re a good boy, Davey. I’ll be back later. I’ve taken enough time off from work—Nick’s illness and all--- but I’m just doing a little today."

   But she left, then, and Starsky was left alone to brood. About his Ma. About Nick. About Hutch.

   He didn’t bother to eat. Instead, he showered, got dressed, and made up the sofa bed. He’d been indoors too long, and it was going to make him crazy. He decided to go roam the city.

********

   He walked through the West Village, wondering what the hell had brought him here. Queer City. Homo Central.

   He found himself on West Street, between 10^th and Charles. The first thing that hit him was the sight of so many beautiful bikes. Harleys, most of them. Triumphs, Suzukis—you name it.. it was there, a long line of gleaming chrome and black leather, right out in front of the bar. It was an old building, stylish. He looked up at the marquis. The Ramrod.

   He never knew what made him walk inside.

   It was as dark as a cave, and it took a second or two for his eyes to adjust. He made his way to the bar.

   His first impression was of how badly he was dressed for the place. There were not a lot of people there; it was too early in the day for that. But the men who were there seemed to all be dressed from head to foot in uniforms of black leather, motorcycle boots, etc. Nothing very pansy-like in here, and he wouldn’t have wanted to take any of these guys on.

   The music, he reflected, didn’t fit the image of the place. Blondie’s " The Tide Is High" blared from the jukebox, and there were a couple of men dancing to it on the dance floor. In leather. He nearly left, when he saw that. Two men, bumping and grinding all over each other, like that, in public. Christ.

   That question, and the answering pulse in his groin made him sit down at the bar and order a beer. The bartender, with his thick black mustache, was every bit as intimidating as most of his clientele, but handed him a Coors with a warm smile. Starsky didn’t know whether to be encouraged or afraid, but accepted both the beer and the smile. He tried to be gracious, and smiled back.

   Starsky dug around in his jacket pocket for his wallet. He pulled it out and opened it to pay the bartender, and discovered that most of his cash was gone. His traveler’s checks were however, untouched.

   " Uh, do you accept Traveler’s Checks?" He asked the bartender.

   " Sure."

   Thank God drug dealers don’t. And thank God Hutch insisted I put most of my travel money into Traveler’s checks. Shit.

   Starsky signed a fifty and handed it to the man.

********

   Several beers later, after much brooding, Starsky finally got up enough nerve to take a look around the bar. He was looking off in the direction of the pool tables with some interest, when a presence suddenly beside him nearly made him jump. He turned to look at the man who’d just taken a seat next to him.

   He nearly fell off his barstool.

   Hutch? And then after a closer look, No, not Hutch. But definitely a close match.

   "Thinking awfully hard, aren’t you?" Soft, deep voice, slightly husky. Kind blue eyes. Blonde, spiky and cut in the new bi-level fashion that was so popular now. Very tall. Lean. Younger than Hutch by at least a decade. Dressed in a clinging black silk shirt, tight blue jeans.

   " Oh, well, yeah—lots to think about." Starsky replied. He took another look at the newcomer. Very pretty. He didn’t have that edge, that toughness that Hutch had. He looked soft. Almost womanly. But beautiful, really beautiful.

   " Can I buy you a beer?" The young man smiled.

   " Uh, no—I don’t---" Oh, what the hell---" Sure. Uh. Thanks." Starsky blushed, and tried to cover for it by invoking some manners. He held out a hand, and the young man took it, shook it briefly. Nothing scary. " My name’s Dave Starsky, what’s yours?"

   Flash of bright white teeth. " Devon. Devon Silver." Devon ordered the beer, and one for himself. The bartender brought them over, and Devon paid him.

   " So, have you been here before?"

   "No."

   "What brings you to this little corner of the universe, Dave?"

   Starsky thought about it. Didn’t want to go there. " Nice bikes out there, huh?"

   Devon was not only stunning, but he was also, to Starsky’s profound gratitude, quick on the uptake. " Yeah, did you see that Vintage Indian cycle out there? The one with the suicide clutch? "

   For the first time, Starsky was able to relax and plunge into a thoroughly enjoyable conversation.

********

   Starsky dully registered the sound of breaking glass as Devon roughly pushed Starsky against the mirror in the deserted men’s room. He squirmed, trying not to moan, as he began thrusting his groin against Devon’s, feeling Devon’s mouth on his neck. He reached up with both hands and pulled the taller man’s head down into a bruising kiss.

   Devon’s hands were at his fly, unbuttoning, sliding hot fingers under the waistband of his briefs. Taking hold of the burning length of him and straightening him out and suddenly the younger man was on his knees.

   He tangled his hands in Devon’s hair, and looked down to see....

   Golden hair..

   Hutch...

   Oh, god, Hutch...

   ...what the hell am I doin’?

   "No.. no, Devon---don’t.." Starsky rasped out hoarsely as he pulled away. He hurriedly tucked himself back into his pants.

   Devon looked at him worriedly. " What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?"

   Starsky came closer, touched a hand to the younger man’s cheek. " No. No, you didn’t. You’re fine. I’m sorry. It’s –it’s just.."

   " You’re already in love with someone, aren’t you."

   " Yeah." Starsky said softly, meeting Devon’s gaze. " He’s my partner."

   Devon looked a little wistful. " I..I understand." He didn’t quite seem to know what to do with himself, and Starsky, feeling a little guilty, pulled him into a hug and kissed him gently. " Thank you." He whispered into Devon’s ear. Then he let the young man go.

   Startled, Devon met Starsky’s gaze. " For what?"

   " You know, that was the first time I’ve ever said that out loud. That I love him." Starsky murmured. " You ..you helped me do that."

   Devon’s lips quirked in a small sympathetic smile. " Yeah, I know how that can be. It’s tough." The two men touched hands. And then Devon drew away, saying, "I’ve---gotta go now. Good luck to you, Dave."

   " You too, Devon." Starsky watched the young man leave. He left the bar a little while later, thinking of the day’s events. And what they would mean when he got back to California...when he got back to Hutch.

********

   Starsky arrived at his mother's apartment to find yet another screaming match. The door was wide open, and he went through it , readying himself for battle.

   This time he decided, he was getting into it. He'd had enough.

   Nick was standing in the middle of the living room with his mother's purse dangling from one hand, a wad of cash in the other. "I thought you said you were broke! You bitch--" He snarled, as his mother tried to reach for the money, which he held above her head.

   " What the hell do you think you're doin, Nick?" Starsky barked, and shoved the younger man to the floor.

   Nick whirled in a flash, swinging at Starsky with a desperate fury. " Leave me alone! This isn't any of your business."

   Starsky hauled his sick excuse for a brother up by his ratty tee-shirt and shoved him into the wall, upsetting the cheesily framed landscape there. It crashed to the floor, and Starsky heard his mother calling frantically,

   "David, don't you hurt him!"

   "Ma, stay out of this--" Starsky warned, and for once, she obeyed, going quiet and still.

   "Look, you little, low-down, conniving, no-good little bastard--" Starsky pulled his brother up so that he was face to face with him. Nick struggled, tried to throw a punch, but Starsky let the ineffectual blow roll off him, and soon had his brother pinned down on the carpet, one arm twisted behind his back. The wadded bills fell to the floor in the struggle. " How dare you steal from me? From her? I want the money back, Nick--all of it!"

   " I can't--" Nick's whiny reply made Starsky's skin crawl. " Let me up..."

   "Nicky--you stole from David?" Their mother's shocked whisper sounded out.

   " What'd you do with the money, Nick?" Starsky twisted Nick's arm just a little harder, not enough to do damage, but enough to let him know that he meant business.

   " Ow!!! You shit--Fuck you!!!"

   " The money, Nick, goddammit!" Starsky increased pressure.

   Nick gave a little scream, and suddenly went limp. " I --I spent it!"

   " On what--drugs? "

   " No!" Nick was sobbing, now.

   " What, then?"

   " I --- I owe somebody!" He coughed , struggling for breath. " Lemme up,

   Davey--I'm sorry!"

   Starsky let him go, and he lay there on the carpet, gasping like a gaffed fish.

   " Nicky?" Starsky's mother started forward, but Starsky again warned her away with a glance. " Ma, not now."

   " Who do you owe, Nick?" Starsky asked, almost pleasantly. He got up off the floor, snagging the money while he was at it, and walked over to his mother.

   He took her tiny hands in his own, and folded them around the money. She held onto the money, never taking her eyes away from Nick.

   He shouldn't have.

   His mother hissed, " David, look out--" and Starsky whirled, seeing out of the corner of his eye---a flash of something metallic---a knife? --and then something ripped into his gut--blinding him, and he sank to the floor clutching his belly. He tried to move as he watched Nick stride over to his mother and snatch the money out of her hands.

   "Nicky, what have you done?" His mother whispered, horrified.

   "Oh, shit. Ohshitohshitohshit, I stabbed him..." Nick was babbling. He'd dropped the knife. Starsky could see it. A switchblade.

   " Why'd you have to make me do that, huh ?" , he screamed at his prone brother, whose only response was to groan and continue bleeding on the carpet.

   Nick's face was pale and he was weeping. " I'm sorry, Ma...I'm sorry, but...Ma.." He staggered, nearly tripping over Starsky on his way out the door. The slamming of the door was the last thing Starsky heard before he passed out.

********

   He woke up, alone in the hospital. The antiseptic stink alone told him it had to be Belleview. Someone in the next bed over was moaning incessantly.

   It made the place seem even sadder than it already was.

   The door opened, and in walked a nurse. And, thank God, his mother. Whole, unharmed. " Ma? " His voice sounded so weak and tired. He tried again. "Ma.." Not much better.

   "Hello David." His mother looked so frightened.

   The nurse checked his pulse, very impersonally. Made sure he didn't have a fever, yeah, yeah. Took a blood sample. He was sore as hell, and the nurse's prodding didn't help much. After deciding that he probably needed it, she agreed to bring him some medication for the pain, if his doctor okayed it.

   But he was very busy, and would not be able to see Starsky for at least an hour.

   " Hey..." He tried to ask the nurse. " Hey, can I at least have some water?"

   " We'll see, Mr. Starsky. You know you're very lucky to be alive." She gave him what was supposed to pass as a compassionate look. " I mean, after being mugged and all. That wound could have been much worse. You've had a lot of injuries, Mr. Starsky.

   Starsky listened to the nurse's words, and grew cold. Mugging? Is that what his mother had told the hospital? He'd wondered why there were no cops around to take a statement. Mugging...yeah, right.

   She came closer to his bed, and sat in the chair next to it. She did not attempt to touch him. Her eyes were frighteningly wide with fear.

   " Ma--why'd you lie?"

   " Don't. Don't talk about it. It didn't happen."

   " Mama--Nick, Starsky tried, " Nick--he stabbed me...you saw it--"

   " Please, David, he's my little boy, don't you get him into trouble, he's been in enough trouble already---David, for the love of God--!"

   Hot tears that sprang to Starsky's eyes, and he murmured," I thought I was your son, too, Ma."

   Something transformed his mother's face, hardening and lengthening it. He wanted to draw back from that hardness, that steely gaze. But he could only stare in horror as her next words proceeded to tear him apart.

   " You stopped being my son when I sent you away. After your ....shameful affair with that boy. It all came out after he was killed. "

   Starsky gasped for breath. He felt like he'd been stabbed again, this time in the heart." Y-y-you knew--you knew all along--" He couldn't seem to breathe right, and he felt dizzy.

   His mother seemed not to care , but went on, ruthlessly. " And your...friend. That Hutch person you're always talking about. He even called me for a recipe for you. He wouldn't have done that if you two weren't---it's so unnatural! And then I called you, thinking you'd grown up, that you'd left your sinful ways behind, and here you are, you're still the same selfish boy!" She stopped, mopping at her own eyes with a handkerchief.

   " Alright." Starsky breathed. " I ..I won't tell. Just...just leave me alone. I need to be alone for awhile." He was really beginning to have trouble breathing, now. " Hey.." he managed to whisper. " I --I think I need some help here.."

   She got out of there fast.

   The nurse returned with a doctor. Soon there was a team of staff clustered around him, but he was fading. He couldn't breathe, couldn't see--everything was white fog, and he faded with that fog, drifting...drifting...

   Voices fuzzed into to his brain, waking him slowly.

   " -----reaction to the antibiotics."

   " Is he gonna be alright?" This voice was familiar, warm... like sunlight.

   Starsky tried to place it.

   "He sustained some damage, but the knife missed any vital organs. He's very lucky. He'll be sore for a while, and we'll keep him here for a few days to make sure that he doesn't have another reaction to the antibiotics."

   " Can I stay? I'm--I'm the only family he has."

   That voice again. Starsky struggled to open his eyes. But he was so tired... so damned tired. But he finally succeeded in opening eyes that felt as gritty as if they'd had sand poured into them.

   " Sure."

   " Thank you, Doctor."

   Starsky heard the door swing shut. Heard footsteps approach. Then he felt a large, warm hand take his own.

   " Hey, babe. Can you hear me?"

   " H-hutch?" Starsky stared unbelievingly into sea-blue eyes. " Hutch?"

   " Shhhhh. You've been out for quite a while, partner." Then shakily, " Is it possible for you to stay out of the hospital? Christ, I'm never letting you out of my sight again. Your mother called me. I flew out as soon as I could."

   His ..mother. What mother? He didn't want to cry in front of Hutch, but felt the tears rolling down his cheeks, much to his dismay.

   " Oh, baby, shhhh--hey--" Hutch soothed, cupping the side of Starsky's face in one hand. " I know, I know. She told me some of what went down.."

   " She...she knew."

   "Knew what?"

   " Knew I was Gay. That's why she sent me to California." Starsky whispered, waiting for the final blow. Now, Hutch would see him for the pervert he was, and leave him too, just like everyone else had.

   Hutch was still there. Holding him.

   " Go away." Starsky sobbed. He couldn't bear this. Why was Hutch dragging this out? Hutch stroked Starsky's cheek, and smoothed the tears away. " Why do you want me to go?" Softly.

   " Because--"

   Hutch interrupted him. " Listen to me. I love you, Starsk."

   " What?" Starsky croaked.

   " I said, I love you." Hutch kissed his stunned partner's forehead. " You didn't think I knew how you felt? I've felt the same way...especially since the shooting..." He kissed Starsky softly on the lips. " ..I was so afraid I was gonna lose you then..."

   " But...but...I love you!" Starsky gasped through tears..

   " I know that, idiot." Hutch said softly, affectionately. "It's okay."

   Starsky tried...really tried to believe.

   Hutch stroked his cheek again, and laid another petal-soft kiss there. "Really, it's fine. It's gonna be okay. I talked to the doctor, and you should be out in a few days. Then I'll take you home, and we'll talk. It's gonna be okay."

   Starsky relaxed for the first time in a very long time, comforted by his friend's---lover's? --presence. But he was exhausted. He drifted off to sleep holding onto Hutch's hand.

********

   Starsky woke, hours later. Grey light filtered sluggishly through the hospital windows. His neighbor was still groaning behind the closed curtain. Hutch was sprawled all over the tiny wooden chair next to the hospital bed. He looked both uncomfortable and ...angelic.

   Starsky moved a little, trying to disentangle himself from the sheets. The pain of Nick's parting blow made him gasp harshly. Hutch's blond-lashed eyes fluttered open, fixed on his partner. He straightened up slowly in the chair, and Starsky didn't miss the wince of discomfort, the stiff movements.

   " You were here, all this time ? Sleepin' in that chair?" Starsky asked blearily, knowing the answer. Of course Hutch was there. He always was. Through everything.. Bellamy, Terri---everything. He'd be there through this, too.

   Hutch ignored the question, opting instead to move to sit on the side of Starsky's bed. His voice was husky with sleep. "Morning. How're you feeling, partner?"

   For once, Starsky couldn't cover his pain with macho games or false bravado. He hurt far too much for that. In too many ways. "She...she wanted me to lie..." he sobbed, "...she thinks that I'm --" he gasped out the word, that filthy word, " ...perverted....my own mother...." He let the tears fall, and Hutch took Starsky's hand in his own, smoothing his tears away with gentle fingers. " Hey, hey..." Hutch murmured, and he leaned over to kiss his partner on the lips for the first time; a sweet, chaste kiss. Starsky, at that moment felt so loved that it nearly broke him. It was such a contrast to what he'd known all his life. How was it that Hutch could accept him---even love him , when his own mother and brother could not?

   "Shhhh.." Hutch whispered, and kissed Starsky's lips again, very carefully, very deliberately. Lingering a bit, until Starsky began to kiss back, even through his tears. It seemed to go on forever in a blaze of heat and light, and Starsky felt the whole world just...drop away as he went into free fall. No pain. No sadness. Just Hutch. Christ. Hutch finally broke the kiss, and laid his forehead against his partner's. "

   Do you know how long I've wanted to do that, needed to do that?" He said, low under his breath.

   Starsky pulled the blond's head down into another kiss in answer, this one was as hungry and as passionate as any saccharine -sweet romance writer could have wanted. He felt Hutch's hands caressing his thigh through the sheet, gently --not greedily. Weaving through his hair, and cupping the back of his head. They broke apart ,panting a little and Starsky saw how flushed Hutch's face

   had become. The blue eyes were hot with longing--and something else? Love?

   Last night hadn't been a dream. This was happening. And Hutch, as if he'd read Starsky's mind said it again, out loud. Gravely. " I love you, David Michael Starsky."

   Talk about soapy scenes. " God, I love you, Hutch...I love you so much..." Tears came again as the huge block of ice lodged in Starsky's chest began to melt. Something that had been terribly wounded within him--that he'd never even realized was there--began to heal.

********

   "What's this?" Starsky's mother stood in the doorway , watching her son and the tall blonde stranger embrace. " Right here in the hospital, in public--no shame at all. Perverted...just like they said, all those years ago." The tiny, fragile woman, seething with rage seemed a very giant to Starsky. Overwhelming him with just the malignancy of her words and her angry presence.

   Oh, God...no more, Starsky moaned inwardly. I can't--I can't take any more of this...

   Hutch didn't move, just stayed where he was, holding his Starsky close.

   Starsky, sick and hurt and completely overturned by all these new revelations in his life ---could only stare at his mother in numbed horror. He couldn't even speak. He heard her--and she sounded so peculiar... as if she were standing in a tunnel. He tried to make sense of her words--but his heart began to pound wildly in his chest--he couldn't think. His palms felt sweaty and it was getting hard to breathe..

   But I thought they fixed the meds, he thought, disoriented. Isn't it the meds? His mother's face had been transformed by her hate. So ugly and vicious. 

   "How could you do this to me? " And then her eyes narrowed, " You're a ho. mo. sex. ual , aren't you--" and the emphasis she put on the syllables of the word--made Starsky feel faintly nauseous. You--you---are no " she spat, " --son of mine. My son is dead. Dead, do you hear me? " She went on, and on--in a tirade of hatred and shame and betrayal, but Starsky wasn't really listening anymore. He was beginning to close down. His limbs tingled, and he was cold---so cold! She refused to notice. She went on, ruthlessly slaying him with her dark wrath. But it was just so much angry noise--his mother's mouth moving, and her scowling and nothing but these disjointed, meaningless sounds coming out---Starsky began to tremble in Hutch's arms. He simply had no defenses left. His vision began to blur, then go dark. He dimly heard Hutch, speaking in cold, metallic tones, not to him--to his mother. Telling her to leave and not to come back.

   Hutch moved. Unwrapped his arms from around Starsky, leaving him shaking and cold. Got up, and left . Gone. Just like his mother, his brother--everyone else.

   The world went black.

********

   Someone was talking to him. In soft, gentle tones. Coaxing. There was a stinging in his arm. His mouth was dry, and tasted horrible. Painkillers.

   His hand was being held, stroked. Kissed? Kissed. Hutch?

   " Baby, c'mon back to me, c'mon, Starsk..."

   " Hysteria." Matter-of-factly. " This should help calm him."

   " I don't want to see that woman in here again, I don't care if she is his mother." Harshly. Not sounding like Hutch--or , rather, sounding like Hutch when he was in his avenging mode.

   He still couldn't talk. He was wrung out. He tried to move. Nothing worked. He made a supreme effort to struggle up out of the darkness. Light shone. Hutch's eyes. Love and tears mingled together, a trembling smile.

   He was still here.

   " Hu-hutch..? w'happnd...wha..?" He didn't even recognize his own voice.

   " Oh thank God, babe--" Hutch's voice was laced with tears. " I thought---"

   He calmed a little. "--good to have you back, love."

   " Thought y'left..."

   "No, never--I just wanted to get her out of here, babe.."

   " I--I'm so tired..." Starsky's eyes were shutting of their own accord.

   " That's okay. Sleep, baby. " Hand softly stroking his cheek.

   " Don't let her---" Starsky moaned.

   " S'okay, babe, it's alright...I'm here."

   Comforted by that, Starsky finally let himself float off into sleep.

********

   The flight had been a hard one. Starsky had been in a lot of discomfort, and the heartbreak of having his family more or less disown him, even as screwed up at is was-- --well, Hutch never wanted to see that look of total despair on his partner's face again.

   Starsky hadn't had any more panic attacks since leaving the hospital. Which was a good thing, because Hutch kept having nightmare images of Starsky succumbing to heart attack--as the result being already weakened by Gunther's bullets.

   There was no question of where Starsky would stay, at least for the time being. After leaving the airport, Hutch had driven to Starsky's apartment. He helped Starsky pack a few things and moved him into his apartment. And that night, for the first time, they slept together. Nothing more than that , Starsky was still healing, but it was soothing and right. The closeness, the warmth. The love.

********

   Starsky woke up, not quite knowing where he was. Still a little stiff. Still aching inside. His family was gone. It had been this way for a good month and a half now, this feeling of waking up into a dream, one where his family, such as it had been--was gone. Knowing he was dead to them, forgotten. Knowing just how alone he really was in the world.

   Then, just as it had happened every morning since the hard flight back to LA---A miracle... It began with the ray of sunlight that Starsky recognized as ash blonde hair. Sleepy blue eyes opening, giving him Starsky the will to breathe again. The knot in Starsky's chest slowly loosened, and he burrowed into golden warmth.

   "Mmmn." Hutch stroked Starsky's back, sending shivers racing along his spine. Dropped a soft kiss on his forehead.

   Starsky let himself open to it, and soon he was melting in Hutch's embrace. It smoothed away his stiffness and left him burning.

   Hutch's love, his touch-- was a sort of anodyne to Starsky, soothing away the ache of his heart-- it was ...sacred, almost holy, this love., and Starsky gave himself to it, needing to touch, to taste--- to feel every part of Hutch--to be one with him.

   Hutch tipped Starsky's head back, the better to kiss him; and began exploring Starsky's teeth and tongue with his own, letting his hands roam wantonly.

   Starsky squirmed a little under the onslaught and responded with his own amorous line of attack. He pulled away gently and lightly ran his teeth along Hutch's jugular, pausing to suckle at the salty flesh, to nip gently at Hutch's jaw line. He was thoroughly gratified to get a low moan of pleasure from his blonde partner, and smiled inwardly as he let his fingers , and then his tongue trail down Hutch's chest to his nipples, lapping at each one in turn. He moved down on Hutch's body slowly, so slowly, finding hot skin to suck and taste, registering dimly that Hutch was throwing the covers back.

   Hutch groaned, " Jesus, Starsk—" and Starsky ran his tongue into Hutch's navel, and continued further down, sucking at the juncture of tender flesh where Hutch's thigh was joined to his torso. Hutch gasped and bucked against him, and he went even lower, discovering the taste of Hutch's inner thigh. Starsky was unable to resist nipping a little sharply at it, and he got a mildly outraged yelp from Hutch that made him chuckle.

   Starsky moved to tug delicately at Hutch's pubic hair with his teeth.

   Hutch lifted his hips, feverishly, needing more. " You keep that up, and you're going to be in trouble---" , he said under his breath.

   " I like trouble, " Starsky murmured, especially when it's with you."

   He returned to his explorations, finding Hutch's most delicate, most private delights. He began to run his tongue around the fragile fleshy orbs , feeling them tighten, watching Hutch's cock jump in reaction.

   " Oh, love, love---ah.. don’t stop, " Hutch moaned.

   Starsky had no intention of stopping. He lapped delicately at the base of Hutch's ample cock, watching it swell and ripen into its dusky rampant glory. He sucked gently along the delicate tracery of veins on the thick shaft, underneath the rim, tasting the bitter, salty pearl of moisture that appeared in the tender slit. He lapped at it, pushing his tongue into it, stopping only when he felt Hutch tremble violently underneath him, and then he surged up to plunder Hutch's mouth again.

   Hutch ran his fingers along Starsky's back, down to the deep cleft between his buttocks, stroking him there until Starsky broke away , gasping, " Oh God, oh God...Hutch--" He ground his pelvis into Hutch's and then back , thrusting his ass into Hutch's hand, desperate, not knowing what he wanted.

   " Turn about's fair play, " Hutch tipped Starsky backward, and began showering kisses everywhere, in no particular order--each touch was a surprise to Starsky and he began to twist and moan as kisses became oral caresses, leaving behind little trails of wet heat that left him dazed, off-balance and unable to think.

   Hutch, ambled down Starsky's body, taking his time, sucking the tender flesh behind Starsky's knee, and back up again to suck at each stiffened nipple in turn . He moved back up again to assault the pulsing vein along Starsky's neck. And then, without warning, Hutch was down between Starsky's legs, pulling them wide apart, plunging his tongue deeply into him, and making him writhe with it. Hutch pulled back to lap all along that hot, swollen flesh; and then shockingly, Hutch was taking it--all of it into his mouth, deep into his throat. Starsky cried out harshly, desperately trying to disregard the almost overwhelming need to start thrusting.

   But it felt so exquisite, almost painful--- the strong, silken muscles of Hutch's mouth and throat almost roughly caressing him . Starsky bit back a scream, as he felt his climax, too soon, too close! He moaned helplessly, pleading wordlessly.

   " Oh, no you don't---" Hutch saw the danger, and grasped Starsky’s cock tightly at the base, effectively preventing his release.

   Starsky nearly howled from combined relief and disappointment.

   Hutch let him go then, and trailed fingers slick with spit along Starsky's deep cleft, insinuating a finger into that tight, tight heat, and then another, and another; twisting them, brushing his knuckles against the prostate. " How's that? " Hutch whispered.

   Starsky groaned, lost in a myriad of sensations too intense to catalogue. Hutch twisted his fingers again, rubbing against that tiny, hypersensitive swelling, torturing him, and he heard as if from a great distance his own faint little panting cries. " Oh, like that, like that... oh God, "

   " You like that, is it good?"

   " Yesssssss..." Starsky hissed, and thrust himself onto to Hutch's fingers, wanting everything, all of it--now. " Please, Hutch...babe, I need you.. now---now, please, " he panted.

   Hutch's breathing sounded labored, as he rasped out the words, " Lube. Now."

   Starsky managed to snag the jar from the nightstand, open it with trembling hands, and hand it to his partner.

   Hutch sat up and pulled Starsky forward until his ass was balanced on Hutch's thighs. They were cock to cock, and Starsky, moaning with desire, was unable to prevent himself from grinding against his lover. " Please--please, Hutch...hurry.." Starsky whimpered.

   Then the fingers were back, this time slick with lube, gently teasing Starsky's puckered heat, thrusting gently within. Hutch massaged him, deep inside, stretching him, so slowly, so gently. Starsky relaxed, letting his body become pliable in Hutch's hands. But Hutch's hands kept up their torture until Starsky was wordlessly complaining again, thrusting himself onto Hutch's fingers, and then suddenly begging for what he wanted, " Please, Hutch...oh God, I want you in me," and then he bit his lip as Hutch reached in even farther, stroking him deep inside.

   " Now? Tell me what you want, love." Hutch kissed Starsky's chest and Starsky felt as if he would faint, as if he'd die if Hutch didn't finish it.

   He pushed again, hard onto Hutch's hand, pushed hard, struggling with it, unable to articulate what he needed, wanted... Starsky told him in a trembling voice, " I want you to fuck me, Hutch please.. now---"

   " Okay." And the fingers were gone, and Starsky moaned at the almost abrupt feeling of emptiness. But then Hutch tipped him backwards a little, and suddenly, Starsky felt the wide, blunt head of Hutch's cock, prodding at the tightly puckered opening. Hutch entered him slowly, and Starsky twisted on it, impaled; relishing the slight burning sensation as Hutch's ample cock stretched and filled him even more.

   He began to move on Hutch’s cock. Hutch controlled Starsky’s hips with one hand and took his time. He found his rhythm long, slow strokes; still careful, even after all his preparations.

   It was driving Starsky slowly insane.

   But it was so good! All that friction and heat, that lovely sense of fullness--- Starsky thrust against his partner harder, whimpering, wanting more.

   ‘ This what you want, babe?" Hutch groaned, and captured Starsky’s painfully hard cock and let it slide back and forth in his slick fist. Starsky was slowly going out of his mind, every nerve in his body thrumming with the intensity of blinding heat.

   " Oh, God--!" Starsky panted, blind and burning with it. He wrapped his legs around Hutch’s back and hooked them together at the ankles, pulling Hutch even deeper inside him.

   Hutch leaned forward, and thrust hard, rubbing deliciously against the prostate, and Starsky howled, convulsing. He unhooked his legs, and dug his feet into the mattress for leverage, and pounded himself savagely against Hutch, meeting him thrust for thrust, shaking uncontrollably as he felt the heady explosion build.

   He tightened down on Hutch, as Hutch swelled within him, making him shudder.

   " Hutch! –oh, God, Hutch, that’s it, baby, come for me—" He cried , and Hutch gasped, and plunged in powerfully and deep, all the way to the hilt, and then again, and again, until he stiffened with a roar and Starsky felt the flood of scalding wetness filling him.

   Starsky jerked violently once—twice, and then lost all control, all sense of time, as his climax spun him out into that vortex of light. He screamed with it, battered by a maelstrom of sensation until he finally floated free, ecstatic. He drifted there awhile ---feeling safe. Feeling loved and utterly content. Finally, a long time later, he came back to rest in his own body.

********

   Hutch was gently kissing his chest, his mouth. Starsky pried one eye open, and then the other. They were facing each other, and Hutch held him that way, gently stroking his cheek.

   Starsky felt his eyes filling with tears, but this time they were happy ones. " I love you so much, Hutch, " he whispered.

   Hutch caught his mouth in a kiss, not hungry, but warm and loving. He stopped and nuzzled Starsky’s neck, saying throatily, " Don’t know what I’d do without you, partner... I love you , too."

   Starsky couldn’t stop himself. " Forever?" , he asked , and then went cold, terrified of the answer.

   But Hutch kissed him again, and nipped at his Adam’s apple. " Of course, idiot." He chuckled. " For a detective, sometimes you’re awfully dense." He licked at Starsky’s bottom lip, chuckling again as if to take the sting out of the words. " Babe, it’s you and me. Period, end of story. To the end." And then, in an intense whisper, fixing Starsky’s eyes with his own, he said, " Don’t you know I couldn’t—I couldn’t make it without you? You’re my heart, Starsky."

   "And you’re my soul, Hutch." Starsky said in the same intense whisper. He relaxed, letting Hutch cuddle him, warm and replete with the certainty of their love.

********

   It had been a hard road, Starsky reflected, as he lay in Hutch’s arms. It promised to be even tougher, what with being out of the closet having to deal with the bigotry of some of the other cops on the force. Dobey had been very helpful on that front, but there was only so much he could do. Then there were the broken windows , graffiti on the house, Starsky’s car---and of course, none of the neighbors ever saw anything. It wasn’t going to be easy.

   But they had each other. Together, they could make it.

   And Starsky wouldn’t change a thing.

THE END